


The Ties That Bind

by andr0meda_c1rce



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, BAMF Cassandra Cain, BAMF Stephanie Brown, Barbara Gordon is Amazing, Batfamily (DCU) Bonding, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, F/F, F/M, Idiots in Love, Jason Todd Deserves Better, M/M, Slow Burn, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Worried Alfred Pennyworth, dick Grayson is Trying His Best, involuntary bondage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25239400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andr0meda_c1rce/pseuds/andr0meda_c1rce
Summary: After Jason and the rest of the bats find out that Dick faked his own death for an undercover mission, tensions in the bat family reach an all time peak. Things take a turn for the worst when Jason and Dick get stuck together. Literally. In order to survive, they’ll both have to learn to get along. For better or for worse
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Stephanie Brown/Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Comments: 14
Kudos: 149





	1. Down The Rabbit Hole

Jason’s trying hard to concentrate. He really is.

There’s an Arkham nutcase on the loose, and because nothing in Jason’s life can just be _easy_ for once, the sicko’s armed with an ancient magical staff and a cruel streak colourful enough to make Deathstroke blush. 

Cases involving any type of ‘ _abracadabra’_ always hold an uncomfortably large amount of potential of going sideways. Magic’s complicated. It’s intangible and _unpredictable_ and that makes it fucking _dangerous._ Jason’s been on the wrong end of Zatanna’s spells one too many times to attest to that.

The real kick to the balls though is that Gandalf’s ventures don’t just stop at turning homeless people into frogs and blowing up building’s sky-high. The fucker’s been scheming to open a portal into the fourth dimension and has decided that the perfect place to do so is at the rat-infested, black heart of Jason’s territory. So, naturally, Jason’s taking it personally.

Nobody gets to encroach on Red Hood’s grounds without facing the repercussions. Repercussions, in this case, being the recoil-operated, second-grip missile launcher at Jason’s feet which holds approximately enough firepower to level a twenty-storey building. More than enough to level an abandoned warehouse at the centre of Crime Alley.

But that’s plan B. Plan A involves the twin semi-automatics tucked at Jason’s waist.

Jason shifts closer to the edge of the rooftop he’s scoped out so that he has a direct line of sight targeting the warehouse front. 

Maybe he should test his guns out on the pair of overzealous morons stationed outside the doors, make sure everything’s in working order and all. And okay, maybe a small part of him wants to exact revenge on the two assholes who’ve been unwittingly talking his ears off for the past twenty-five minutes.

Seriously, if he has to hear one more word about fucking _Marley_ and his fucking _Viagra problem,_ Jason’s going to skewer the guy on his own rifle.

Jason can’t pinpoint the exact moment it happens, and he’s not entirely sure how he knows, just that years of bat training and street-honed instincts kick in the second he feels the air shift at his back. His fingers close around the pistol handles, guns a familiar weight in his hands, and then he’s swinging around in one, smooth motion, arms flying up to aim.

Oh _fuck no._

Nightwing stares down the barrel of Jason’s guns, still, assessing, before heavy, blue eyes slide up to meet his. “Mind pointing those somewhere else?”

This really is turning into a monumentally shitty night.

Jason makes no move of lowering the weapons, “No.”

Dick’s jaw tightens, the corners of his mouth drawing down in reproach, “I thought we were past this.”

Jason flicks off the safety in response, watching the glare in Dick’s eyes sharpen dangerously. He can _feel_ the air between them growing perilously charged, thrumming under his skin, and making his nerves _itch._

Dick’s still sporting a reminder of last week’s fight; a bruise, angry and mottled, creeping high along his cheekbone and disappearing beneath the domino mask, and Jason’s seized with a malicious desire to mark up the other side of his face with something equally ugly.

It’s kinda’ funny how the older Robin’s been here all of two seconds, and Jason’s already prickling to put a bullet through his head. That _has_ to be a new record.

“The hell you doing here?” Jason waves a gun at Dick, cutting him off, “No, wait, I just realised there’s nothing you can say to make me care so _fuck off._ ”

Dick’s smart enough to realise when he’s being goaded. Dumb enough to call out the _armed_ guy doing it too, apparently. “I’m not going to fight you.”

“Why not?” Jason’s arms drop to his side as he takes a step forward, bristling. “Daddy tell you to roll over and be a good boy?” Another step. “Promised to give you a treat if you _behaved._ ”

“I’m not his _dog,_ Hood.”

“Really? Because you act like it.”

They’re almost chest to chest now, that same violent charge is growing, crackling between them, and making the tiny hairs on Jason’s neck rise. He knows Dick senses it too, that feeling of everything drawing tight around them, filling the space, and straining at the seams, a storm brewing.

Jason presses impossibly close, _pushing_. “You’re selfish. You’re manipulative. And you’re a fucking liar.”

He can see the control cracking, flashes of that infamously righteous anger seething hot and savage just beneath the surface and Jason wants it. Wants to crack Dick’s chest open and tear it out until he’s _burning_ in it. 

“You’re just like _him_.” It’s the final push. Jason feels Dick’s breath hot at his neck, sees the white-hot heat pulsing, readying to explode, feels the absolution of it churning in his gut, writhing, thickening, roiling to a crescendo-

“Red Hood, are you there?” Oracle’s voice crackles across his comm.

He jerks, ice cracking down his spine and then Dick’s pushing away like he’s been burned, sucking in one shaky breath after the other.

“Red Hood?”

Jason inhales sharply, clearing his throat before accepting the private link on his comm, “Yeah.”

If Barbara hears the crack in his voice, her tone doesn’t betray it, remaining efficiently clinical. “I’ve just received confirmation that the Arkham convict isn’t working solo.”

Jason chances a glance at Dick. He’s still staring at him but the moment’s passed. He doesn’t look angry anymore, or sad, or hurt. He just looks _tired_.

Jason grinds down on his teeth, “Leave.”

Oracle pauses, then with a hint of confusion, “Sorry?”

“Talking to Nightwing,” he clarifies, turning his back to Dick. The line goes quiet, and Jason can feel the weight of his words sinking in. Then, softly, after a moment’s pause, “He’s there?”

“Not for long.” There’s a hint of black and blue stubborn in his peripheral, and he tilts his head towards it, “Get lost or I _will_ actually shoot you.”

He tries to make it sound angry, tries to make it sound like the threat it is, but Dick’s mournful stare is pressing down against the back of his neck, a hideous, twisting thing, and it’s just _not fair._ Jason shouldn’t be feeling guilty, he doesn’t _deserve_ to be feeling guilty, because for one miraculous instance in his life, he’s not the one in the wrong.

“Is he gone?” Oracle’s voice sounds like it’s been scrubbed raw and Jason can empathise with that well enough. He swings around fully, then releases a long breath. The rooftop’s empty. “Yeah.”

“Okay.”

And it’s not okay. But there’s too many bad things that happen too much of the time, and spending too long thinking about them is just going to push him down a rabbit hole he’s not sure he’ll be able to find a way back out of.

Oracle knows this. They all do. He can hear it in the way she pushes it down, that feeling of being swallowed whole, and seeks stability in statistics and concrete data, “The Skulls are involved. They’re offering him immunity.”

Jason tucks the guns back into his belt, letting out a low hiss of annoyance. Black fucking mask. Because the only thing _better_ than a magic-wielding dumbass is when said magic-wielding dumbass joins forces with a psychopath. 

After this has all blown over, Jason decides he’s going to go and pay Sionis a nice, little visit and give him a stern talking to about working with established sociopaths.

“Do we know why?”

“Not yet,” and Jason can hear the sharp click of keyboard keys, “But we think it has something to do with Operation Jailbird.” Aka operation Arkham bust-out.

“That’s stupid even for Mask standards.”

“Feel free to tell him that when you see him next time, Hood.” The humour leaves O’s voice, “Red Robin and Constantine are almost there. ETA fifteen minutes.”

Jason eyes the slate-grey sky above the warehouse. He clicks into the visual scanner in his lenses, verifying his suspicions. There’s a tiny point, almost indecipherable at first, just below the level at which the clouds are beginning to disperse, their edges turning black and warped, it’s emitting some sort of radiation and thick, acrid waves of carbon monoxide which Jason can smell even through the filters in his helmet. 

“I’m linking Red Robin now.” He should wait for Tim and Constantine to arrive. That’d be the smart thing to do.

“No need.” There’s something unraveling in his chest, pushing him towards an edge that veers dangerously close to pit territory. “I’m going in.” The rabbit hole is pulling at him again, digging in and dragging and if he doesn’t _move_ he’s going to get sucked right in.

“Hood.” Oracles voice is urgent in his ear, but he can barely hear it over the adrenaline buzzing. “Hood wait for backup. _Hood-”_ Jason clicks off the comm then unhooks the grapnel from his belt, latching it securely against the rooftop railing before swinging over the side and letting the dark swallow him.


	2. The Wizarding Community

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason acts as his usual charming self and gets himself into trouble. Dick tries to help and things get messy.

“You seem surprised.”

Jason shrugs, or attempts to anyway. It’s a difficult movement to follow through on considering he’s wrapped in chains and hanging upside down from a metal beam. “I thought you’d have a beard.”

He doesn’t know exactly what he had been expecting when he crashed in through the ceiling, maybe something along the lines of a wizen man dressed in robes and a pointy hat wheezing, ‘ _you shall not pass.’_

He was sorely disappointed. This thin, twig of a man, painfully boring from his horn-rimmed glasses to his pressed tweed pants, contradicts everything that comes to Jason’s mind when he thinks of the word _magic mastermind_. The guy’s not even wearing a pointy hat which is honestly a disservice to the wizarding community everywhere. It’s an unspoken rule that wizards have pointy hats. Or so he thought. A part of him feels a little betrayed.

“I thought _you’d_ be smarter, Red Hood. But alas, you’re just another uncivilised, lowly, Gothamite worm.”

Jason wiggles his fingers surreptitiously against his bindings, probing for an opening. “From what I’ve heard, we have that in common.”

The wizard steps into Jason’s space and suddenly Jason finds himself staring into pale, milky eyes, glinting beadily behind glass. “I am a _god_.” Somebody has an ego complex. 

“Could’ve fooled me.”

The wizard lifts the staff in his hand, pressing the tip against Jason’s chest and Jason bites back a groan as the chains tighten, squeezing painfully against his ribcage. “Words,” he grinds out, “Let’s use our words.”

“The more you annoy me, the more painful your death shall be.” Well, then. Not the progress he was looking for.

“You think I’m annoying? _Ouch_.” If his arms were free he’d have put a hand over his heart. So, he has a flair for theatrics, sue him. “That’s actually a common misconception. I’m a _real_ sweetheart once you get to know me.” Jason thrusts up against the chains pointedly, before pulling back his lips in a smile that’s all teeth. “Let me down and I’ll show you just how _charming_ I can be.”

The wizard’s stare is disconcertingly predatory, and Jason can feel something hollow and slimy take root low in his stomach. “Since you love the sound of your voice so much, little worm, you’re going to die screaming.”

He makes to step back, and Jason realises it’s now or never. “If you’re really a _god_ , like you claim to be, why are you working for Black Mask?”

He knows he’s hit a sore spot from the way the wizard goes stock-still, the tendons in his neck straining. “I do not _work_ for _anyone_ ,” the edge in his voice hones to a keen snarl that scrapes against Jason’s ears, “I am the King of King’s, almighty, all-seeing-”

“Then why do you need Mask to protect you.”

The way the wizard is eyeing him, a mixture of scorn and bemusement, makes Jason feel suddenly very unsure of the whole situation. The corners of his mouth are curving up into some semblance of a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and it’s an ominous, unearthly thing that sends Jason’s flight response into panic.

“I am a god,” he repeats.

“You’re protecting _him._ ” Jason’s speaking before the realisation fully sinks in but once the words are out he knows they’re true. It makes _sense._ Because really, an ‘all-powerful’ wizard has no need for immunity when a simple protection spell does the job. 

Hindsight’s a bitch.

“It was a displeasure to meet you.” The staff in the wizard’s hand begins to glow with fiery iridescence, “Goodbye, Red Hood.”

Everything happens quickly after that. A blur of metal flies past Jason’s nose with a sharp whistle, lodging itself into the staff and Jason barely has time to register the curving shape, the familiar steel-blue wings, before it explodes in a burst of smoke.

The detonation appears to trigger some sort of lock-up mechanism in the staff and Jason can do nothing but watch, heart in his throat, as a pulsing crest of energy ripples towards the staff tip, amplifying with each oscillation, growing larger and larger.

There’s a brief second of lapse where time seems to freeze, the head of the staff vibrating softly as the pressure reaches its apex. 

It’s like watching a car-crash happen in slow motion.

All that build-up of raw energy cuts loose, like a dam breaking, and Jason’s eyes clench shut as a wall of singeing heat slams hard against him, bones jarring from the strength of it. There’s ringing in his ears, and cold concrete pressing against his cheek. He’s not in chains anymore, a small, detached part of his brain deduces.

Jason lurches onto all fours, mind already analysing his settings, logging information and details long before he’s conscious enough to be aware of it.

The staff lies a couple feet away from him, still emitting swells of energy. The wizard staggers back from the force of the shockwaves, feet tripping over one another and sending him crashing to the floor like a felled tree, head knocking against the ground with a soft _thunk_.

Jason takes the opportunity to dive for the staff, unsuccessful as a surge of vertigo knocks him flat onto his back.

Then there’s hands at his shoulders, pulling, dragging at his jacket, and urging him to _move._ He follows, ears still ringing, before he’s unceremoniously shoved down to the ground behind a stack of crates, the impact sending shocks through his kneecaps.

“Hood,” Jason blinks through the dark fuzzy spots, peering up at Nightwing’s face, his brows drawn together as fingers trace across Jason’s chest, examining for damage. “ _Hood!”_

Jason pulls back, and everything comes into focus in a lurch of sickening overstimulation, the smell of Kevlar and smoke, Dick’s voice in his ears, Dick’s hands on his face. Dick who _shouldn’t be here-_

Jason sucks in a breath, shoving at him hard, “What are you _doing?_ ”

“Helping you!” Dick lets himself be pushed away, hands falling to his sides, “What does it look like?”

“I told you to _leave._ ”

The glare he receives is equal parts unimpressed and admonishing. “I _would_ have if you’d just waited for Red Robin and Constantine like you were _supposed_ to.”

The fucking hypocrite. “Because you’re so good at doing what you’re told, _you prick_.”

“ _You’re_ the one who chewed me out for always doing what I’m told.” Dick sniffs petulantly, throwing his nose up in the air even as he stares Jason down. “You want me to follow the rules or not? Which one is it, _Hood?”_

This was _not_ happening right now. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He pushes to his feet, untucking a shuriken from the gauntlet at his arm, and craning his neck cautiously to peek around the crates.

Dick follows his lead, even as his lip curls sourly, moving smooth and fluid as he takes up a fighting stance beside Jason. “The least you could do is say thank you.”

Jason spares him a bewildered glance. “The least I could do is not _strangle_ you, you fucking ass. He was giving me _everything_.”

“He was going to _kill you_.”

Jason’s jaw works furiously, choked noises leaving his mouth. The desire to empty a round of bullets into Dick’s stupid skull rises again and he barely tamps it down, breathing deep in through his nose. “No, _I’m_ going to kill _you_ once we get out of here.”

Jason sweeps the room for the wizard and locates him still out cold, sprawled awkwardly behind a row of metal benches, head lolling. Perfect.

“I know it comes naturally, but could you stop being a jerk for one minute-”

“Bite me,” he growls, stalking out from behind their hiding spot and making a line straight towards the deserted staff.

If Jason had his way, he’d bury his shuriken deep into the wizard’s heart. See the self-proclaimed god recover from _that._ But that would be immature and irresponsible and Jason’s _a_ _professional_. Suck on that, Bats.

So he decides to do the next, best thing. “Let’s give the asshole a taste of his own medicine.” The staff thrums in his hand as he aims it at the wizard’s prone body. Revenge is a dish best served hot, after all he thinks savagely, before repeating the binding spell the wizard had used on him, “ _Vinculum_.”

“Jason, _no!”_ Dick’s hand wraps around the staff, pulling, but it’s too late. The wood begins to glow, heating under Jason’s touch until it’s scalding against the flesh of his palm. That doesn’t seem normal.

He lets loose a string of curse words, releasing the staff, and it rises in the air, untethered.

“You _idiot,”_ Dick breathes from somewhere behind him.

His retort dies on the tip of his tongue as the staff flares, thick, luminous ropes, the colour of molten gold, lashing out towards them. He doesn’t have time to throw his hands up to protect himself, has barely drawn half a breath before they’re curling around him like a vice, searing into his skin and carving his flesh with their heat and the pain of it is _nothing_ like he’s ever felt before. 

Distantly, he can hear screaming, but it’s muted, far away, like his head is underwater.

He has just enough sense of mind to realise that Bruce is going to _kill_ him, and then there’s nothing. 


	3. Attached At The Hip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Batfamily faces the consequences of Jason and Dick's actions.

“How long until they kill each other, do you think?”

“ _Master Tim.”_

Jason is hurting.

Every single inch of him, temples to toes, is _aching_ , tender to the point where each small brush of skin against Kevlar itches. It’s a paradoxical sort of sensation, both acutely intense and numbing, and he can barely feel beyond it, feels like he’s drowning and floating at the same time, stuck in some sort of abysmal, godforsaken limbo.

“Jason’s awake.”

“Jason?” There’s a low voice in his ear, and if Jason could bear the idea of moving he’d have gladly punched its owner in the face. Or the neck, or gut, or any other promisingly painful position.

“Jason, I need you to open your eyes.” He’d rather not. He’s more than happy to lie here and die, but apparently the unintelligible groan he offers doesn’t seem to relay his point well enough.

“Allow me, Master Bruce.” A gentle hand lands on his shoulder, and Jason can feel the heat of skin warming him through his suit. “Master Jason, ” There’s lead in his head, he can feel the weight of it pressing against his scalp and he imagines it cracking through his skull, brains spilling out onto the floor, “I need you to get up, please.”

That familiar tone, directed at him, stern with an underlying nuance of gentle promise, it’s like triggering some sort of primitive reflex, and despite the fact that his brain still feels largely like a rock, some sedentary part lights up and propels Jason to move. It’s a huge fucking mistake.

The stabbing behind his eyelids’ staggers explosively, prompting a needle-like sharpness to twist low in his stomach and Jason has two seconds to bite out a passionate “ _fuck”_ before he’s lurching up, or _trying_ to anyway.

There’s a weight on his chest, pushing down against his lungs and making it hard to breathe, or maybe that’s just the fucked-up concoction of panic and pain that’s messing with his head.

“Jason, calm down. Tim, Cass, hold him up-”

He doesn’t hear the rest of it, barely feels the hands at his back. The room is spinning, his heartbeat hammering behind his eyelids and something acidic rises in his throat and _he still can’t move dammit_.

Someone pushes his head to the side and there’s a bucket in his face and it’s just in time because then his stomach hurls and suddenly his guts are spilling out of his mouth.

“There you are, Jaybird,” soothing words murmured at his head. He blinks through the hazy film across his vision, the corner of his eyes wetting, and Babs smiles back, forehead pinched. Then she’s lifting the bucket away and someone pushes a glass of water under his nose and he drinks greedily, washing back the sting in his throat.

“Slow down, Master Jason,” Alfred reprimands softly, pulling the glass away and letting Jason suck in a lungful of air. “Is that better?”

Jason begins to nod, cracking his eyes fully open and it’s only then that he becomes acutely aware of two things.

Firstly, that there’s ropes digging into every available surface of his body, thick and rough, cording across his torso, legs, and ankles, around his arms and further still, wrapping securely around the warm, prone body pressed flush against his.

Dick Grayson’s body, to be precise.

And that’s when Jason realises he’s hallucinating.

“He’s freaking out.”

“Tt, how would you know, Drake?”

“Look at his face.”

“Jason,” Bruce’s signature growl gives momentary pause to the scream beginning to fill his lungs. “Jason, look at me.” Wide eyes flit to Bruce. He’s in his civilian clothes. A quick scan around the Batcave confirms they all are, and Jason’s very suddenly struck with the question- _how long has he been out?_

 _“Breathe.”_ There’s dark crescents beneath Bruce’s eyes, and the way he’s looming over Jason’s head only serves to accentuate them.

“He’s in shock.”

Is he? He doesn’t feel like he is. “I’m _fine_ ,” and god he sounds wrecked, even to his own ears.

“You’re fine?” The disbelief in Tim’s voice is a little insulting.

“Yeah.”

Damian releases a long-suffering sigh that’s far too unbecoming given his age, and with poised petulance levels Jason with a biting tone, “You’re trussed up like a turkey and tied to an unconscious Richard, Todd. How are you _fine?_ ”

“I’m hallucinating,” and it’s a dumb thing to say, judging by the jump of Tim’s brow.

“No, you’re _dissociating.”_

“Damian, enough,” Bruce shifts by his side, moving in far closer than any unspoken rules of personal space ordain appropriate, “Jason. This is all _real_.”

That sharp, writhing feeling is back in the pit of his stomach, and Jason doesn’t want to think about what it means. Bruce is lying, it’s what he always does. _‘He’s lying.’_

He repeats the words over in his head, pushing against the ropes. Bruce’s hands clamp down over his shoulders, and Jason tries to jerk away, shouting at him, thrashing forcefully, and catching the body on top of his with a savage elbow to the sternum. It elicits a soft sigh, and it’s the act of it, the truth of provoking a physical response, that brings the reality of everything crashing down over Jason’s head in a kaleidoscope of senses; the warm breath at the hollow of his neck, the soft hair brushing along his cheek, the rich, earthy scent tickling his nose.

It makes it all real. Alleviates the truth so that it’s staring him right in the face. _Dick is_ _very real_ , very unconscious, and very much tied to Jason in a perverse parody of bondage.

“Holy _fuck._ ” He glares up at Bruce, teeth gnashing, and if he looks mad he doesn’t care. “Get him fucking _off_ of me.”

“Zatanna’s been contacted and she’s on her way. She’ll be here by tonight. Until then, there’s not much we can do.”

“For god’s sake, they’re _ropes_ , just fucking _cut_ them.” He rocks bodily against Dick, pushing and shoving. The rope around his right arm pulls taut, growing tight where it loops around Dick’s neck and pressing against the flesh there.

“Jason _stop,_ you’re going to hurt him.”

“Good.” And Jason hates himself because as much as he wants the word to mean something, it doesn’t.

He glares down at the crown of Dick’s head, eyes burning a path across the contours of his face, the soft set of his mouth, the smooth line of his brows. It’s a gentle expression, undisturbed, _peaceful_. Jason is yearning to erase it, to mar it with something furious and bloody and what does that say about him. About them, their relationship. 

“Jay, I know you’re angry, but you don’t mean that.” He hates the way Barbara is looking at him, hates that despite all the shit Dick’s put them through on his holy quest to save the world, he’s still their golden boy, come down to Earth to absolve them of their sins. Mostly, Jason hates the small, Robin part of him that believes it too.

“You don’t know the half of it, O.” Maybe it’s the frustration talking, or the exhaustion, or the pit resurfaced. Maybe he’s just a horrible person.

His hand wraps around the loose line of rope attached to his wrist. It winds up, to curl, like a collar, around Dick’s neck and Jason yanks at it, hard.

Dick cries out, his body coming to life above Jason’s.

“Get up Dickhead,” Jason says, loud and grating in Dick’s ear.

It has to hurt, with the god-awful headache that’s no doubt blowing up Dick’s head right now, Jason _knows_ it has to hurt, all that shouting. So he does it again, louder, because he’s awful like that. “Wake. Up.”

Eye _s_ flutter open, shockingly blue and screaming murder.

Jason tenses with the anticipation of the fury that’s about to follow, but it never comes. Dick freezes, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, and it might have been funny if it weren’t for the tell-tale way his face blanches after, a soft groan rolling in his chest.

“If he pukes on my face, I’m going to rip out his throat.”

Bruce is next to them in two smooth strides, guiding Dick’s head to the side in a gentle tilt. “Bucket. Now.” Tim lifts a clean, white bucket up to Dick’s face, and Cass rubs small circles over his shoulder as he heaves, retching drily.

Damian’s flitting impatiently at the foot of the bed. He’s scowling and Jason sees right through that front, reading the growing agitation in the quick movement of his hands, his chewed-up bottom lip.

He’s not the only bat that notices, and moments later Barbara is wheeling to Damian’s side, murmuring something quiet in his ear. Damian’s face draws tight, and Jason think’s he’s seconds away from pulling out his katana, but then, by some miraculous intervention, he stills, nodding once before turning and making his way up the flight of stairs that lead to the manor.

“Dick, how are you feeling?”

Jason turns his head just in time to catch the full burning frontal of Dick’s glare bearing down on him as he grits out a fervent, “ _Fine.”_

“Wow, it’s like they’re both stuck on a loop.” Tim raises his hand in a show of surrender at Alfred’s raised brow, “Shutting up.”

“Things would be a lot better,” Dick’s breath fans hot across Jason’s face as his voice grows, “If _Jason_ could just _listen_ and do what he’s told, for once in his life.” And look at that, they’re breaking out first names now.

“You mean like you? _Dick?_ ”

One of Dick’s hands is trapped at the base of Jason’s neck, and Dick takes full advantage of this fact, fingers tangling in the hair at Jason’s nape and _pulling. Motherfucker_. It stings, but Jason refuses to let Dick have the satisfaction of seeing that, keeping the sneered curve at his mouth obstinately in place.

“Stop it. Both of you.” Jason would never admit it, but Barbara Gordon is terrifying when she’s angry, especially when she’s angry at _him._ Judging from the way Dick’s shrinking under her glare, he’s not the only one that feels that way. “Like it or not, you’re stuck together until Zatanna gets here. So stop wasting your time trying to murder each other and do something useful!”

Jason turns imploring eyes on her, growing just this side of desperate, “How the fuck am I supposed to do _anything_ with Dickhead attached to my side. _Literally._ ”

“You’ve survived worse, Jason.”

“You mean like being dead.” Dick makes a noise of scandalous protest. 

“Enough,” the snap of B’s voice is all Batman, and the silence it draws is immediate.

Fucking Robin conditioning.

“You’re not children. Stop acting like ones and _sort it out_.” Narrowed eyes settle on Dick, and Jason feels a smug satisfaction at the wince they draw, until that same glare has him pinned in place. “You should both know better.”

The way in which his stare remains on Jason is making his defence mechanisms flare in all the wrong ways and he can’t help the grin, crooked and sharp, from surfacing, “I’ll be good, _B._ Pinkie swear.”

Bruce says nothing, expression fashioning into the familiar bat-glare that seems to occupy his face at an alarmingly frequent rate whenever Jason’s present. Then he’s turning on his heel in a sleek, quick movement that’s all flourish and Jason guesses that’s as best a dismissal they’re going to get.

Cass pats a hand against the side of Jason’s cheek, drawing his attention, offering a small grin of consolation, “Don’t worry.” A slender finger raises to point at Dick, “Fun.”

Dick gives her a twisted form of what Jason thinks is supposed to be a smile but passes more for a grimace. “Yeah Cass,” His eyes meet Jason’s and Jason can see his dread mirrored there, “This is going to be _real_ fun.”


End file.
